Unspoken
by st4r-pl314d3s
Summary: Harry found something that made him realize that just because something is unspoken, doesn't make it not there.


Summary: Harry found something that made him realize that just because something is unspoken, doesn't make it not there.

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

Warning(s): a bit of angst, EWE

Author's Notes: This is my entry for hd_smoochfest. Thank you to my beta, Little Mijeli, whose help has made this fic far, far better. Any remaining mistake, of course, is mine.

Harry never thought he would ever set foot inside the apartment again. After all, their break-up had been far from amicable. But there he was, opening the door, as if it was his house and he had every right to enter it.

Harry scowled. Of course he had the right to do so. Why wouldn't he? He was the chief investigator on the new Death Eater movement and the owner of said apartment was awaiting his trial for abetting the movement.

His temper started to rise again. It was really, really stupid of Draco, no, Malfoy. Did he think that nobody would notice his involvement? Or, Harry thought uncharitably, most likely the git was too arrogant and assumed he could buy whoever was investigating. His bad luck that Harry was the assigned Auror.

He swished his wand to turn on the lights, and upon seeing the familiar surroundings, his scowl turned into a grimace. Truth be told, he hadn't wanted to come to the apartment. He had even argued with Kingsley and Dawlish, his immediate superior, that the case was a guaranteed win.

Everything made perfect sense. The leader of the group – Theodore Nott, of all people – had told them under Veritaserum that Malfoy was involved. Their latest act, which would end up as their last, if Harry had any say about that, had been selling poisonous Wolfsbane. It was notoriously difficult to make Wolfsbane, and moreover to tamper with it. Malfoy was an up and coming Potions Master in Britain. Malfoys's neighbours had confirmed that they had seen Nott coming to Malfoy's place a few times. Better yet, they had found a set of potion knives with the Malfoy crest in the group's secret laboratory.

There was no way Malfoy was innocent. They had witnesses. They had direct proof. The scenario made sense.

The only thing they didn't have, and the sole reason Harry had been sent to collect further evidence, was Malfoy's confession. In fact, Malfoy had stubbornly claimed Nott had lied, neglecting the fact that nobody had been able to successfully resist Veritaserum. He said that Nott had come a few times, inviting him to join the group, but he'd refused because he no longer believed in blood purity—an argument that almost made Harry choke on his own disbelieving laughter. Malfoy even argued the knife set had been stolen and he hadn't reported the thievery because he thought he'd simply misplaced it. As if he would! Malfoy was nothing if not meticulously neat.

Still, the lack of confession made Kingsley decide that further proof was necessary to guarantee their success in trial. So, one warrant and an Apparition later, there was Harry.

He honestly didn't know what kind of evidence he was supposed to find. Personally, he didn't think Malfoy would be reckless enough to leave incriminating things all over his house. And it wasn't like there was a badge to inform people that the owner was a member of the new Death Eater movement.

Harry's breath caught when he opened the kitchen cupboard. There, sitting innocently side by side, were two mugs. One was green, the other red, and both were decorated with the picture of a chubby dragon that would spit fire when hot water was poured into the mug. He had assumed Malfoy would get rid of them, probably shattering them to pieces.

Next to the mugs, innocently, stood a container of Harry's favourite tea. Malfoy, he knew, despised it as too plebeian for his taste.

The sights brought sweeter times back to his mind.

Harry shook his head, trying to chase away his sentimentality. Maybe Malfoy was just too lazy to throw them away.

It had been nice while it lasted, Harry supposed. But he should have known better, of course. After all, he'd seen the signs all along: Malfoy couldn't get along with his friends and he always suspected Malfoy's friends still wanted to kill him. They couldn't agree on anything and everything, from the dinner menu to where Teddy should get his pre-Hogwarts education. They fought and made up and fought and made up, and in the end it was simply one fight too many.

Harry closed the cupboard and walked to the bedroom. If there was any evidence, Harry was sure it would be kept in the bedroom.

Standing on the doorstep, he cast Diagnosis Spells —after all, he didn't want to be caught by any traps or wards Malfoy might have set.

Nothing.

He felt the presence of one shimmering ward, which parted easily to his existence, greeting his skin with warmth in the process. Malfoy, he realized, had never changed the bedroom ward. Harry didn't know what to think about this, so he stored it away in a corner of his mind.

His spell caught no others barriers, except a small one, under Malfoy's bed.

Harry scoffed. How cliché to hide something beneath one's bed. Well, at least it made his job easier. He strode determinedly to the huge bed in the middle of the room, resolutely keeping out all thoughts about what they had done on that bed. He knelt down and peered into the space under it.

He was tempted to just take it, but being an Auror for years had taught him to be careful, so he took his time dismantling the wards before finally Accioing the box.

It was an ordinary wooden box. There was no lock — apparently, Malfoy was very confident about his spell work. Not that he was wrong in that regard, Harry grudgingly admitted, since anyone else would have been sliced by the wards. Luckily, he was familiar with the way Malfoy's mind worked.

Harry sat down on the bed, muttered an Unlocking Charm and lifted the lid.

He sighed. He'd been hoping for some potions or incriminating pictures or journals. However, there were only two letters inside.

He picked up the one whose parchment seemed to be older and had obviously been opened and folded many times.

_Dear Harry, _

_I am sorry. I shouldn't have said that you are a hypocrite or that you are just killing time before you will marry the She-Weasel. But you shouldn't say that I am only slumming and that your friends are right. _

_And if you ever confront me with that, I will deny it. You can't hold me responsible for everything I say when I am drunk. _

_I am tempted to run after you, but maybe this is better, right? I mean, what am I thinking, that we will live happily ever after? Emotions are not the base of a lasting relationship, after all. _

_You will marry the She-Weasel and forget about me. And I will see a glimpse of you now and then at a Ministry party and that's it. _

_Do you know that the Weasel often taunts me, saying that you will leave me? I think he will be happy when you finally do. _

_I don't want you to leave… _

His fingers felt numb. Why hadn't he noticed?

Shaking, Harry opened the second, more recent letter.

_Dear Harry, _

_I don't know why I wrote this letter. Maybe because I am drunk, although not drunk enough to send it to you. _

_Or maybe I just want someone to talk to. I can't tell Pansy or Blaise about this, since I can imagine their opinions and it's not something I can agree with. Not anymore. I still have nightmares sometimes, where you go to the Forbidden Forest to face the Dark Lord, only in those you never come back from death. _

_Nott came to see me again this afternoon, something about a new group to revive the Dark Lord's ideals and such nonsense. He claimed that he had summoned enough of us, pure-bloods, to support the cause. _

_I don't think he was serious. Nott, after all, is usually all talk and no action. He got angry when I refused and swore that I would change my mind. I don't think he will follow through with any of the threats, though. _

_Still, in case the group was real, or in case he will really make me regret my decision, should I tell the Aurors about his visits? _

_No, they won't believe me. Like you didn't. Why should they? Once a Death Eater, always a Death Eater, isn't it? _

_No matter that I was young, that I only wanted to protect my family. _

_No matter that I love you _

Harry was lucky to already be seated, or he might have fallen. Draco had never said 'I love you' before. Oh, he had implied it, and showed it, but never said the words.

'He should have said it,' Harry thought. 'I thought he didn't feel the same.'

Then it hit him: the weight of what he had just read, and the conclusion coming with it. There, in his hands, was the proof. Not the proof he'd been looking for, at first, but proof nonetheless.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Draco's brain was spinning with the events. A few days ago, he had been a culprit in the latest conspiracy. The man he had—still has—feelings for had been so sure that he was guilty. In fact, he 'd been sure the Wizengamot would convict him.

Then on the trial that day, they had changed his status to witness. Harry Potter himself had pleaded Draco's innocence. His point—that Veritaserum could be overridden—was no longer taken as empty words when Potter brought forth the counter potion, which had been brewed abroad by a sympathizer to Nott's cause. They even had Nott's second confession—this time without the counter potion—that he had stolen Draco's knives to implicate him should the Aurors ever find the hideout.

What had made Potter change his mind? Draco was not stupid. He knew that Potter, Harry, was the driving force behind his freedom. Not that he was guilty, but someone had to have tracked down the antidote and believed him in the first place.

He hadn't talked to Potter in two years, not since the man had stormed out of his house in anger one night. Moreover, Potter had been so sure of his guilt before.

"Draco!"

The voice stopped Draco in his tracks, his heart beating faster. Draco. Potter hadn't called him Draco since that night.

Pretending to be calm, Draco turned around.

"Pot—"

The rest of his words were lost when Potter captured his shoulders and kissed him squarely on the mouth in the middle of the Atrium. For a moment, Draco was aware of Weasley's shocked expression and Granger's smug smile. He absently mused that Kingsley looked ridiculous with his jaw dropped.

The next moment, however, he stopped caring. He lifted his arms, drew Harry closer and returned the kiss.

There would be questions later, a lot of things that Harry needed to explain. There would be repercussions. But at that moment, Draco resolved to simply enjoy the fact that not only was he free, but he also had his Harry back.

Fin


End file.
